


A Thousand Paper Cranes

by jezzberry



Series: a thousand ways to tell you that i love you [1]
Category: B.A.P, K-pop
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff, M/M, Music, Parent Death, Romance, Self-Denial, Self-Doubt, literally once and in only one sentence but i felt like i should tag it anyway, mentions of recreational drug use, side!himup, there is bangdae if you look into it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-15 06:39:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 16,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2219571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jezzberry/pseuds/jezzberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daehyun unravels a thousand paper cranes, and with them, Youngjae’s heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Yellow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rated t for the tiniest mention of weed ever

He finds the first one slipped under his door on a Tuesday morning, just before his first class. It’s a spot of yellow on his carpet that catches his eye as he’s leaving the room, worn backpack heavy on one shoulder. Yongguk had left before Daehyun had woken up, so Daehyun figures that it’s finders, keepers. He picks up the sliver of paper and turns it over in his hand a few times before he realizes that it’s a paper crane. He has seen girls in his class during high school fold them before, chattering excitedly. This one, though, isn’t sloppy like the ones the girls had made. The paper is crisp and clean of unintended folds and the creases are sharp. Daehyun guesses that either he or Yongguk had accidentally brought it into the room, perhaps stuck to their shoes. He tucks a strand of brown hair behind his ear, sets it on the top of his dresser, and thinks nothing more of it.

That same evening, when Daehyun stumbles in through the door at half past ten, Yongguk presents him with another.

“I found this on the floor when I came back from the studio. Nearly stepped on it,” Yongguk says, and deposits folded paper into his hand. “I saw one on top of your clothes drawers and figured it was yours.”

Daehyun twists his lips. “It’s not. That one,” he points to the bird on his dresser, “I found on the floor this morning.”

Yongguk looks at the tie-dye patterned crane in Daehyun’s hand and shrugs, noncommittal. “Weird,” he says wisely, and lumbers to his bed, where he’s transcribing scribbled words from a pocket-sized notebook onto a Word document.

.

“Hey.” Daehyun scratches behind his ear with his pencil. He looks over at Yongguk, who is squinting at the screen of his laptop intensely, and waits for a response. Yongguk grunts like a grizzly bear awakened from hibernation. “Do you think someone could be putting those cranes there? You know, like some kind of message?”

Yongguk rumbles for a second, dissatisfied at being distracted from his work, then finally turns to Daehyun. “What for?”

Daehyun thinks about this. “I don’t know. But maybe these cranes are for one of us? They might be for you.”

“Somehow I doubt it.” Yongguk brushes it off, and turns back to the program on his screen.

Daehyun sighs quietly and tries to concentrate on his own homework. He can’t really say he was expecting to get much more out of Yongguk. Their relationship isn’t unpleasant by any means, but neither is it extremely friendly. There is a kind of detachment on both their parts, a mutual agreement to leave each other alone that they had somehow forged. Yongguk is a year ahead, flying through his studies and beyond, feverishly working on his future. He hadn’t seemed like the type when he and Daehyun had first met at the end of the previous year.

Daehyun remembers that Yongguk had been walking down the hallway fresh out of the shower, decked in an army-green bathrobe loosely secured around his waist and a white towel draped over his head. He’d been scrubbing furiously at his hair and nearly walked right into Daehyun. Of course, Yongguk had apologized sincerely, but Daehyun, catching a glimpse of his heavily tattooed chest, had simply nodded and scurried off as quickly as possible.

Daehyun knows better now that Yongguk is not the delinquent he had first assumed. Yongguk has another tattoo on his arm and a spattering of words on his back, but he typically covers up all three with crewneck t-shirts. He has piercings in his ears that he keeps filled with simple studs, and perhaps his haircut—shaved mostly at the bottom and the sides with the thickest tuft of hair at the top center—isn’t the most convincing, but Yongguk is no more a threatening figure than a stuffed lion. Daehyun also suspects that Yongguk takes the occasional whiff of weed on the weekends, social setting permitting, but Daehyun doesn’t find it all that concerning. The most he can say is that Yongguk’s style needs a little remodeling, especially with the ill-fitting, faded jeans of which he keeps at least three pairs.

.

The origami doesn’t stop coming from that day onward. It’s two different colors or different patterns every day, one in the morning before Daehyun wakes, and the other sometime in the evening before Daehyun comes back. He should maybe be concerned with the fact that someone knows his schedule so well, but he doesn’t really care. There’s no question that the cranes are being delivered for Daehyun, since Yongguk claims one evening that he’d been in the room the entire time, and the bird had miraculously appeared inside. Daehyun thinks that perhaps Yongguk had met the messenger and neglected to tell him so, but he doesn’t pry.

By three weeks’ time, forty-two cranes grace the top of his dresser, and it’s become a bit of an inconvenience. Daehyun looks up ways to appropriate them and finds that he can hang them up. He snags a thick spool of sparkling blue thread from a friend in fashion design (he’s called in on one of the debts from the many times he’s had to make fabric-store runs in the middle of the night) and lays out all the birds on his bed.

He discovers the note through a complete accident. It happens while he inspects the first crane for a place to thread the string through, and peels back the folded paper of the right wing. Behind it, he finds ink.

Daehyun can only read a few words. Curious, he unwraps the bird carefully. On the inside, the yellow has given way to white and the dark blue of pen.

 

_#1: I don’t really know where to start, but I suppose I’ll introduce myself with a little history lesson of sorts._

_In Japan, the paper crane is a symbol of peace._

_Even more so, it is a symbol of hope. They say that a girl named Sadako was diagnosed with leukemia at an early age because of the atomic bomb dropped on Hiroshima, where she lived. When she was hospitalized, she began to fold paper cranes._

_If you fold a thousand paper cranes, your wish will come true._ _Her wish was to live._

_Mine, I guess, is a little bit more selfish than that. And so, with that, you should know that this is just the first of a thousand._

 

 _Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes_ _._ Daehyun has heard the story. The books proclaim that Sadako dies before completing all one thousand cranes, and that her friends complete the rest. She’s buried with the birds beside her. Her relatives, on the other hand, say that she finishes more than a thousand paper cranes before her death.

Daehyun wonders where in that story someone can find hope. He wants to know, wants to know so bad that the disappointment he feels when all he finds on the rest of the cranes are numbers steadily counting to a goal far away consumes him for the rest of the evening. He hangs the numbered cranes on the thread, seven to one string except the very first, with only six. The note he tucks safely into his sock drawer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is like the 3rd edit of this story but i swear it's the last one ;;;;  
> now with longer chapters!
> 
> [Tumblr](http://jezzberry.tumblr.com/)  
> 


	2. Forest Green

Daehyun considers himself lucky.

He’s not the most fortunate, he supposes, having come from a small family and an even smaller budget, but he’s made the most of it. He pays his own way through college as best as he can. Somehow, he had worked his way into an internship at a private conservatory, backed by the stunning recommendations from professors at his own school. He works as an assistant to various vocal instructors all five days of the week before and after classes. The money he makes is a handsome sum for a college student, but it’s only just enough to cover dormitory, food, and a part of his tuition. He has a scholarship to pay off at least half the rest of the tuition costs, but has loans to manage the rest.

He’s loath to ask for money from home. His mother, left all alone after his father’s death, has enough trouble to handle. She doesn’t need the added worry of whether her son is feeding himself properly. A few meals skipped during the week won’t hit him too hard, but it can go a long ways toward his budget, Daehyun thinks.

Daehyun often stays up late into the night to finish assignments he hasn’t had the chance to start due to his job. He sleeps little, eats little, but he’s happy. He sings until his throat is raw and throbbing, until his fingers tremble with a mixture of exhaustion and adrenaline, and it’s really all he needs, all he wants.

He’s been singing since before he could talk. Daehyun’s mother likes to tell about how he toddled around the tiny kitchen in his family’s home, clutching the one stuffed animal they’d been able to afford and giving tunes to garbled sounds. Daehyun has known from the start that all he wants to do is sing. He would give everything for his dream. He’s trying to finish university as quickly as possible, taking on a heavy course load and classes during the summer. He doesn’t even remember the last time he visited home. He wants to go back so badly that sometimes it feels like he can’t breathe here in the city, like the pollution and the cage-like buildings sit on his lungs and slowly poison him. He’s reined himself in until the thick accent he’d picked up from Busan never slips through, until he’s avoided the sun to the point that he’s scrubbed himself nearly clean of the dark tan he’d had from the beach sun. He’s not so loud anymore, shrinks in with the rest of the populace and forces himself to forget how to smile in a way that shows all his teeth.

If he thinks about it, Daehyun isn’t even sure if he wants his mother to see what he’s done to himself. He’s sure she won’t think it healthy, will just fret over his condition more. So, each and every time he feels the unbearable nausea of homesickness, Daehyun reminds himself of how far he’s come, and resolves to stay cooped up in this city for as long as it will take.

.

Yongguk is asleep when Daehyun tiptoes into the room. It’s past midnight, and the on-campus library has finally kicked him out. Through no small amount of begging, the student librarian in charge of the night shift had given Daehun an extra half hour past the library’s closing time at twelve. Daehyun would have to fork over some money for a thank-you-coffee sometime, but he had really needed the extra time to finish work on an essay. Daehyun tugs off his shirt and pants as quietly as possible and slides in between the covers of his bed without bothering to find a sleeping shirt. He shifts, trying to get comfortable, and feels something dig into his skin. He pulls out a wad of paper that he instantly recognizes to be a crane, just from the feeling of the paper. Yongguk must have picked it up from the floor and put it in his bed earlier.

Daehyun grapples for his phone, which he’d shoved under his pillow, and turns on the screen. In the dim light the device emits, he can see that the crane is a rich, dark green. He peeks under the wing, more out of habit than out of expecting to find something there. He’s surprised to see that instead of the usual number, the familiar handwriting has once again taken on the shape of words. He pulls the crane apart as quickly as he dares, glancing at the other side of the room when Yongguk rolls over. Light from his phone screen glosses over the blue ink as Daehyun reads the note.

_#56: You probably have a lot of questions. If you’re reading this._

_I study piano. I don’t know you, except for your name, but I’ve heard you sing. To me, that’s all I really need to know._

_I can give you a little bit more information about me, I suppose._

_I like to watch people. I like to pretend that I can read them, and I have the bad habit of classifying people into different groups. I watched you a few times before, when we were in the same class our freshman year. You never sat in the same place because you didn’t have someone to sit with. Did you know? You wear your heart on your sleeve._

_I hope I haven’t offended you by saying that. I don’t think I meant it as a bad thing._

_I also have a bit of a problem with the sky. I can’t ever decide whether I love it or I hate it._

_It’s nice to talk to someone like this. Thanks for listening._

.

Daehyun wakes up at six in the morning to the quiet buzzing of his phone. It’s the first of five alarms set on the device. He can’t say he wakes up too easily, but this time is an exception. Daehyun uses the extra hour he has won to jump in the showers before the rest of the building rises. When he gets back to his room, Yongguk, too, is stirring to wakefulness. “Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise,” Yongguk had once preached to him.

The note from the evening before lay half under his pillow, fresh creases in the paper from Daehyun sleeping on it. He purses his lips and straightens it as best he can before sticking it with the other one in his sock drawer. He had fallen asleep thinking about the note and its messenger. Daehyun would bet money that the sender is a male. Their communication is entirely one-sided, but Daehyun wants to get to know this person. He ponders the benefits of sending a response back.

Before he can second-guess himself, Daehyun reaches for scratch paper and a pen, and tears the scratch paper into as even a square as he can manage. He pulls up a tutorial on how to fold a crane and follows it the best that he can. It’s only by the time that he has a very sloppy bird in the palm of his hand that he realizes that he’s forgotten to include a message. He also hasn’t thought of how to deliver the crane, with neither the knowledge of a dorm room number nor a name to whom he should address it. Yongguk returns from his own shower just then, and throws a more professional crane at Daehyun’s head. It falls on his thigh, and he stares at it. He’s sure there wasn’t one inside the room before, and no one had slipped it in while he was inside. Yongguk had to have gotten it from someone.

“So you know who’s been sending these!” Daehyun exclaims, accusatory. Yongguk lifts a shoulder in a shrug, as if he’s too lazy to lift both of them. “Who is it?”

“It’s not my business to tell,” Yongguk says calmly.

“Tell me,” Daehyun demands petulantly.

“Truth is, I don’t actually know who he is. I just know his face,” Yongguk counters. He slips on a ragged pair of jeans under his bathrobe.

“So it _is_ a guy,” Daehyun states triumphantly. Yongguk again shrugs a shoulder—the other one, this time. Daehyun sighs. He fishes tape from his backpack and rips off a long piece. Daehyun packs his textbooks and dresses quickly, arranging his still wet hair with a quick brush through. As he’s leaving, patting his back pocket to make sure that his phone is in there, he tapes his mess of a crane to the side of the door facing out into the hallway. Yongguk catches the action, and before he can say something, Daehyun shuts the door, the tips of his ears burning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://jezzberry.tumblr.com/)   
> 


	3. Red

Daehyun is all too used to pity. In his tiny hometown with a population of at most thirty different families, everyone knows each other. He hadn’t ever minded the closeness. In fact, he had enjoyed the warmth. Back home, apartment buildings had only two stories and a few apartments on each floor. They had only a couple of these apartment buildings, and the rest of the community was made up of squatting, old, single-level houses. During the summers, Daehyun devoted his nights to building bonfires on the beach with the rest of the teenagers from the town and singing for the fun of it at frequent barbecues. His days he spent soaked in salty ocean water and sweat, running errands, if there were any, from over the whole town for a little bit of extra pocket change. The rest of the year, he studied more dutifully than most, dreaming big of moving to the city. Around holiday season, the town fought the chill of the weather with the heat of a welcoming fire in the houses that had a fireplace. Several families would pile into these homes, laughing loudly late into the night and sharing mugs of hot drinks.

Of course, in a community knit so tight, there are no secrets. All in the matter of a day—a sad, gray day—the comfort of his hometown turns into a stifling net with little room to breathe.

Daehyun’s father passes in an explosion of screeching tires, crushed metal, and shattered glass when Daehyun is just fourteen. His father spends a long day and night in the nearest hospital, hooked to whirring machines, comatose. His last breath comes in the early hours of the morning, before the sun tickles the horizon. Suddenly, it’s no longer Daehyun and his family. Suddenly, it’s just Daehyun and his mother and a community full of people who can never replace the man that Daehyun has lost.

They offer apologies and condolences. The whole town attends the funeral, but Daehyun can only hate them for it. He cries shamelessly, unrestrained, lashing out violently when someone attempts to tell him _it’ll be okay._ Daehyun loathes that word. _Okay._ Nothing about his father gone forever from the world could be summed up in four letters and two syllables.

The years pass, and Daehyun only throws himself harder into schoolwork. He’s even more eager to escape from his hometown and pursue his goals. He spends less time with friends and more time hidden behind closed doors with a textbook in his lap, and slowly but surely he and his mother are separated from the web of their community. They move to the next town over when Daehyun’s mother gets a job that pays a little more. This town has taller apartment buildings and more people. Now, there’s no more community to speak of. It’s just Daehyun and his mother.

.

_#100: The world is such a big place, isn’t it? We’re like ants. We’re vulnerable, but somehow we all still have something different to try for. We’re so determined to achieve our goals, until life crushes us with a boot._

_Somewhere in this big, big world, I lost my parents. One day, they just never came home. I don’t know why. I stayed at home alone for days, waiting for them to come back. I didn’t go to school because I was afraid that I would miss them if they returned while I was out. I was just a kid. I didn’t think to call the police. Only after a week, when I called my grandmother, did she file a missing persons report to the police. For that week when I was alone, the house was entirely silent. I could have sworn I could hear the echo of my footsteps. Even the little neighborhood I lived in was quiet, and I didn’t hear a single car pass by my house. We lived right on the curb of the street, so it was really strange not to hear cars the entire time._

_I really hate the quiet._

_But don’t get me wrong. I don’t want your pity. I figure I just needed to get this off my chest._

.

Daehyun has had his fair share of pity. He hates it. He doesn’t need people to look down upon him or give concessions and justify it with their pity for him. He’s lost his father, yes, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s still lucky. Lucky that he can sing, that he can go to college, and that he came out alright in the end. Daehyun doesn’t need pity, and neither does his friend. Daehyun smiles, wry at first, a cheek lifting. Before he knows it, he can’t stop the grin that spreads across his face. As much as he tries to cover his teeth, he can’t contain the laughter bubbling in his chest.

Yongguk looks up from his notes in surprise, and the rhythm he’s been tapping with his fingers onto his laptop’s mouse pad pauses. His eyes widen and he stares until Daehyun’s smile slowly ebbs away, leaving content satisfaction in its wake. Then, Yongguk matches Daehyun’s grin, gums revealed, eyes crinkling. Daehyun later admits that he’s just as astonished with Yongguk’s sudden expression of happiness as Yongguk had been with his. They’re laughing at each other—laughing _together_ —and the mirth doesn’t subside until a good five minutes later.

“I didn’t know you could smile like that,” Daehyun mentions awkwardly in the aftermath. He’s unearthed an orange highlighter from somewhere and is coloring a more neatly cut square of paper with it to add a pop of color to the crane he’s going to fold.

Yongguk raises an eyebrow in question. “I could say the same for you.”

“I meant,” Daehyun searches for the words, comes up empty. “I meant I didn’t know a _Seoulite_ could smile like that.”

“You’re not from Seoul?” Yongguk asks in amazement.

“I’m from Busan.”

“I couldn’t tell at all. You don’t have even a hint of the accent. Now that I look closer, you’re a little darker skinned, but nothing like some of my friends,” Yongguk comments. “I don’t mean that negatively,” he amends hastily, when Daehyun shoots him a guarded look.

Daehyun sighs. “I know. Sorry. I just—wanted to fit in, I guess.”

“You don’t have to stop smiling to fit in, you know. In fact, I’m sure you’d have girls all over you if you just grinned once at them like that.”

Daehyun shrugs and stays quiet. Yongguk doesn’t need to know that Daehyun doesn’t really swing that way.

 _Did you know_ , he writes later that evening into his crane, _that you can smile even in Seoul?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://jezzberry.tumblr.com/)   
> 


	4. Baby Pink

It’s the time of year when the heaters in the campus buildings start to kick in. The temperature outside usually ends up warmer than the temperature inside, oddly enough, so the heater tries to compensate and somehow it just never works. The end result is that each room in the building has its own climate, and Daehyun is either too hot in his sweater or too cold in his t-shirt. He’s sweltering in a long sleeved top in his music theory classroom, which is bordering on eighty degrees, when he hears it.

His professor has left the door to the hallway open, from which the occasional freezing gust of air sweeps in. One of these gusts brings with it the tinkling of a piano and the tune of a familiar song. It takes him a while to place the sound, but he eventually identifies it as one of Frederic Chopin’s better known nocturnes.

Daehyun’s professor soon catches on to the music as more students find their attention stolen by the beautiful playing.

“That, ladies and gentleman, is what one of the best pianos in the school sounds like,” the man says, scratching at his balding scalp. “These kinds of pianos cost anywhere from sixty to a hundred thousand dollars. They won’t let anyone but the top few students into that practice room. Listen well, if you’re not going to listen to the lesson. It’s rare to get in on a free concert like this.”

The professor lets them listen through to the end of the song, and even allows a muted round of applause. He closes the door after, and smoothly proceeds with his lecture. Daehyun shifts the collar of his shirt, even more uncomfortable now that the air flow in the room has been stopped. He prepares himself for another half hour of a stagnant, muggy climate.

.

A few weeks later, Daehyun has several rare hours of freedom in the evening from a canceled class at the conservatory of his internship. He’s ready to spend all his time studying Latin vocabulary, has even propped up his notebook on his bed frame, but the opportunity never comes.

“I hope you’re decent,” a loud voice declares, and the door opens wide suddenly. Daehyun knows that voice all too well, but he hasn’t heard much of it since the previous year.

Himchan strides in confidently and brings a blast of cool air with him. He’s been like this since Daehyun’s known him, always followed by a breeze and an undertone of expensive cologne. Sometimes, Daehyun feels that Himchan could lower the temperature of a sauna by several degrees just by being in it. He’s not sure how he’d picked up a friend like this, right from the very start of his time in Seoul. He remembers that it had been his first class in the university, on the first day, and he’d been desperate not to start off his first year sitting alone. In his haste, as the teacher swept into the room, Daehyun had taken a seat next to Himchan. Somehow, a friendship had blossomed, and though Daehyun would have expected Himchan to have long since dropped all communication between them, Himchan has hung on doggedly.

“Himchan,” Daehyun starts slowly. He’s not really sure what to say. He’s certain that he hadn’t told Himchan what room he was in this year. They hadn’t spoken since the last text Himchan had sent a couple months ago. “It’s been a while.”

Himchan has dyed his hair again. It’s a stunning white-blond, and he wears it well, somehow. Himchan tends to wear most things well, Daehyun muses, from red jeans to ripped t-shirts and humongous scarves. Daehyun can’t say he really understands Himchan’s fashion sense, and his style seems to vary from hip to strict and back again. Himchan doesn’t hide that he’s not in love with Daehyun’s choice of over-sized sweaters and backward facing snapbacks, but they are as far apart on the spectrum as can be in that respect. Himchan takes good care of himself. He has clear skin and a slim nose, a practiced smile and confidence in his straight shoulders. Daehyun has none of that, and he supposes he’s a bit envious. He hasn’t yet managed to conform to Seoul’s society the way that Himchan has.

Himchan hums indifferently. “It has. Who’s your roommate?” he asks.

“Yongguk.” Daehyun has a feeling he won’t be able to accomplish studying tonight.

“ _Bang_ Yongguk?” Himchan clarifies.

“That one.”

Himchan hums again, a little more interested. “Not bad, not bad at all. I’ve gotten a taste of him. We went out a few times, but it never really got far. We’re friends.”

Daehyun stills, astonished. “Yongguk is gay?”

“Bi,” Himchan corrects. “Maybe not even. I’d say more bi-curious. That, or pansexual.”

Daehyun scowls. “That’s two entirely different things, Himchan.”

“I’m _aware_ of that. Yongguk just loves everyone no matter what. I think he couldn’t care less what you are or who you are, he loves people if they’re good on the inside.”

“Oh.” There’s a pause. “Why would I be indecent?” Daehyun says to fill the silence he can feel encroaching on them. He probably should have asked earlier.

“Huh?” Himchan looks at him like he’s turned into a fish. Daehyun really shouldn’t be surprised that Himchan’s already forgotten.

“When you walked in,” Daehyun reminds helpfully.

“Oh, that. I don’t know,” Himchan replies flippantly, and moves right on to the next order of business. He’s always been straight and to the point, Daehyun notes. “What are you getting up to this year? We should catch up. Let’s go for some coffee,” he offers.

“Now?”

“Why not?”

Daehyun can think of many good reasons to decline Himchan’s suggestion, but he finds himself grabbing a satchel from under his bed and stuffing his notebook inside regardless. It’s a change of pace, and Himchan always insists on treating him. Daehyun isn’t one to miss out on free sweets.

.

Daehyun returns after his outing to discover a crane with a note inside. He’s finally noticed that all three previous message carrying birds have been a single color, unlike the unique patterns of the rest. This time, the glossy paper is a soft pink tone.

_#230: I’ve been working on something I’d like to show you. Take a seat at the bench in the second courtyard around four in the afternoon tomorrow, if you can. I’ll make it quick, so you won’t be late for your job._

Daehyun falls asleep that night with a twinge of excitement that he hasn’t felt in a long while. He doesn’t even notice that he lets slip a _goodnight_ to Yongguk as he’s settling down. It’s a small habit that he’s long suppressed since starting university, a lingering memory of the sleepover nights he’d had with the other boys back in his old town, when they’d spend twenty minutes exchanging _goodnights_ just to stretch the time before they slept. It had seemed silly once he’d come to the city, and Daehyun had squashed the habit promptly. If Yongguk is surprised, he doesn’t let it show, and returns the words without a pause.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://jezzberry.tumblr.com/)   
> 


	5. Periwinkle

There are four courtyards on college campus, with a fifth that has been in progress for longer than Daehyun has been at the school. Daehyun’s never seen it without at least a single uprooted tree or hole dug in the ground, for whatever reason. The estimated completion time had been set and long passed in his first year of university, and it doesn’t seem like there’s much chance that it will be done before Daehyun graduates, either. The second courtyard adjoins the music wing of the campus and is the plainest out of them all. It’s muted at this time of year, when even the sidewalks have been swept as clean of leaves as the trees themselves. The grass underfoot is dry and crackles underfoot as he paces in front of the bench closest to the building.

There’s movement in his peripheral vision, and he turns to see that a window has slid open. He recalls briefly that his friend is a piano major, and seats himself onto the bench with the hint of a smile playing across his lips. The air is still, unusually slow, and Daehyun’s not used to this kind of silence. There’s no one else around at this point in the day, with all the students either in classes or at work. He himself is supposed to be at the other end of the city in a half hour, but he’ll manage, somehow, even if it means he has to run all the way to the nearest bus station to make up for lost time.

Chair legs scrape against a creaking wooden floor, the sound as clear as if he were in the room himself. There’s a pregnant pause, as though the world is holding its breath, filled to bursting with—with _something_ , Daehyun can’t put his words to. Daehyun hears it, then, delayed, a single note. A pause, a chord, another pause. Suddenly, the world breathes again, in tandem with the consistent harmony the left hands keys provide for the melodious right hand notes. They’re quiet, little gasps—the world is afraid to breathe too loudly. There’s a welcome crescendo, and Daehyun watches as the colors in front of his eyes shift and sharpen. Daehyun is both relaxed and anxious, waiting waiting _waiting_ for the _more_ that the spaces in between the notes promise with sly whispers into his ears. Slim fingers curl into the fabric of his jeans, catching on folds.

Finally, _finally_ , the music becomes hurried, more frantic as it progresses. Daehyun pulls the word from the limited Latin vocabulary he has— _agitato._ The _cadenza_ ebbs as quickly as it had crashed over him, and takes with it all the nervous tension in Daehyun’s shoulders. The song dissolves from angry froth to foam to nothing at all, and Daehyun is left completely bare, with a closed window and a fluttering heartbeat.

Daehyun arrives late at the conservatory, but they pardon it as a one-time occurrence. He’s unintentionally distant for the rest of the time, and his last professor sends him back early for “much needed rest.”

.

Himchan snags him again, a hand on the inside of his elbow and a worried smile. Daehyun follows without asking questions, tucking the note that had been clutched in his hand into his back pocket.

_#232: That was Chopin’s Pianoconcerto No.1 Romance-Larghetto. I’ve heard all of Chopin’s pieces, and played at least half of them. I’ll play them all, one day._

Himchan takes him to a different coffee shop this time, closer to the campus and more of a student hub than anything else. It’s a little more rundown as well, but the atmosphere is warm and everything is neatly put together. The café has a good half of its tables and booths filled, and the combined voices of the students result in a low hum of noise. Daehyun leads the way to the counter and the display of treats underneath, eager, but he tones down his excitement when he observes the way Himchan wavers uncharacteristically behind him. Daehyun is getting ready to ask if there’s something wrong until the barista calls his attention away.

“You’re back,” the employee remarks enthusiastically. Himchan shakes out of whatever reverie he’d been in and grins disarmingly.

“The coffee you made was delicious, I really couldn’t help myself.” The confidence Himchan is exuding is too much, too over the top. It’s fake confidence, which Daehyun recognizes as overcompensation for Himchan’s nervousness. Daehyun’s only seen Himchan like this once before, when he’d had to take a test he hadn’t studied for at all because a nasty stomach bug had kept him bedridden.

Himchan’s fingers twitch anxiously, and he shoves them into his pockets. The smile on his face widens a centimeter. To any onlooker, Daehyun figures it would seem that Himchan’s self-assurance was strong and effortless. His shoulders are pulled straight and slightly backward, his chin tilted a few degrees to the right and his expression is entirely nonchalant. Daehyun knows better.

“Coffee sounds great right about now,” Daehyun butts in. The barista is slightly taken aback by Himchan’s presence, and Daehyun can only guess that Himchan had acted entirely different their first meeting. “What was it that you ordered?” Daehyun asks, turning to Himchan.

Himchan doesn’t miss a beat. “An iced Americano.”

“In the winter?” Daehyun probably shouldn’t be surprised. “I’ll pass. A vanilla latte for me, and a slice of that strawberry cheesecake,” he says, smiling at the barista. Himchan orders another Americano, and they take a settle into the only unoccupied booth left once Himchan has paid and they have their drinks.

The chairs and booths are all equipped with the same cushions of soft velveteen brown. Daehyun leans back into his seat comfortably and watches Himchan slowly deflate.

“His name’s Moon Jongup,” Himchan mutters after a few moments.

The booth they’re in is off to the side, providing Daehyun with a clear view of the counter and the employee behind it. Jongup is wiping down the countertop with a white rag, head bowed in concentration and oblivious to Daehyun’s appraisal. His sleeveless shirt hides neither the rippling muscles in his arms nor the smooth tan of his skin. Jongup’s shoulders are strong too, and his chiseled jaw casts a sharp shadow onto his collar. His hair is styled carefully, intentionally ruffled and swept to the side. The rich chocolate color suits his overall skin tone well, Daehyun thinks.

Himchan looks at Daehyun with a look he’s never seen before. “What do you think?” Himchan asks. Daehyun is struck by that look again—Himchan is seeking his _approval_ , he realizes with a start.

“He’s handsome,” Daehyun starts. “Very good looking. But I don’t think his looks would make you so agitated around him,” he says carefully.

Himchan purses his lips. “It’s not. He’s—I don’t know. His smile. I came in and all I did was make an order and maybe I checked him out a little—but the way he _smiled_ at me. _God_ , I don’t even know how to talk to him.”

“You talked to him last time, didn’t you? Start off small. He probably goes to school here too, so ask about his classes. Praise his coffee. Except not how you did just now, that was borderline sexual harassment.”

Himchan groans and steers their conversation away from Jongup. At some point, they both take out their notebooks and textbooks and start studying, soothed by the muffled background noise of the cozy café.

Later that evening, Daehyun folds a crane and colors it red with a colored pencil he borrows from Himchan. On the inside, he writes _it’s beautiful_ but forgets (neglects) to write _I would give anything to do a duet with you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://jezzberry.tumblr.com/)   
> 


	6. Tan

Daehyun fixes the strap of his backpack, rubbing tiredly at his eyes as the sun shines through the window in the hallway and straight into his face. The days have grown short to the point that the sun is setting just as he finishes his last class. Daehyun looks down to avoid the glare of the sun, gaze falling onto the courtyard below. There’s a large oak tree right in front of the window, peeling bark and branches so bare that Daehyun can see the ground easily. Someone—a male, by the distinct figure—is standing by the base of the tree looking up, Daehyun observes. He slows his step to a stop, pulse thundering in his ears, and follows the stranger’s gaze to the sky. Somehow, Daehyun _knows_. He knows this person—how or why doesn’t matter.

Daehyun doesn’t even process his thought properly before he races to the nearest exit. He dodges a couple people in his way and nearly collides with the wall in his haste, running down the stairs and through the building, out to the courtyard. He’s panting as he makes it into the garden, eyes wide and wild and backpack feeling as heavy as a ton of bricks on his back. The boy who he had seen only moments ago is gone, not a trace left behind. Daehyun glances around him, burning with embarrassment and relieved that no one had seen his mad dash outside. He feels foolish and knows he doesn’t have any grounds to believe that the person in the courtyard had been the sender of the cranes. Still, the feeling of a missed opportunity remains, no matter how much Daehyun tries to quash it. The feeling follows him for the rest of his day, all throughout work and on his way back to the campus late that night.

His phone buzzes is in his jacket pocket, and Daehyun pulls it out reluctantly, exposing his fingers to the biting winter air. It is a message from Himchan, offering a hot drink if Daehyun accompanies him to the coffee shop again. It is nearing ten at night, but Himchan assures him that the café stays open nearly twenty-four hours a day. It’s a college student haven, essentially. Daehyun finds himself passing by the turn to the dormitory buildings and heading in the direction of the shop. _A hot drink would be really nice, I suppose_ , he texts in response, and hurries on his way.

He shudders at the welcoming gust of warm air that wraps around him as he steps into the small eatery. He inhales the pleasant smell of coffee beans and hot chocolate, unwinding the dark red woolen scarf around his neck. He doesn’t go outside without a scarf anymore, knowing well that his history of losing his voice during the winter months will do him no good in his classes. The winter winds have long begun, sneaking underneath his clothes and chilling him to the bone. Daehyun huffs warm breath onto his hands and waves weakly at Himchan across the café. He strides to the counter, where Himchan meets him and hands off his credit card. He mutters something about being too nervous in the presence of Jongup to purchase the drink himself, and Daehyun has to turn his head away so that he doesn’t laugh. Himchan retreats to his booth as Daehyun decides on another hot latte.

“If you wouldn’t mind, please take a seat while I make it. I’ll bring your latte out to you,” Jongup offers. It’s outside of the normal procedure, where customers pick up their orders themselves, but Daehyun doesn’t think too hard on it and smiles gratefully.

“Thank you,” he says, tilting his head in a polite nod. Daehyun slumps into the seat facing Himchan, pulling off his backpack and thick coat and placing them to the side. Himchan has chosen the most secluded spot in the shop, a booth under a light that is dimmer than the others, lagging behind and close to shutting off entirely. They’re in a corner situated somewhat behind the counter, hidden from view by the jut of the wall.

Himchan has his notebooks spread over the table, backpack leaning against the wall and textbook open to the middle of a chapter. “I like this little alcove,” he mumbles.

“It’s quiet,” Daehyun agrees, and starts to unload his homework onto the table as well. He is just getting started when Jongup interrupts him, placing Daehyun’s latte carefully out of the way of any papers.

“Um. I was told to pass this onto you, sir,” Jongup says, lifting a plate of strawberry cheesecake for Daehyun to see. “It was paid for by an earlier customer. He said I should give you this with it.” Jongup reaches into his apron pocket, pulling tan paper out.

“Oh. I—thank you,” Daehyun stammers in surprise, taking the offered items. “Is there any chance you can tell me who asked you to deliver these?”

Jongup shakes his head. “Unfortunately, I was told to keep his identity a secret.”

“Alright. Thank you,” Daehyun reiterates. Jongup smiles and returns to his position at the counter. Daehyun catches Himchan watching him out of the corner of his eyes, trying and failing to be subtle.

The paper, Daehyun knows from the familiar folds, is in fact a crane. Himchan has finally torn his gaze away from the barista and focuses instead on the bird in Daehyun’s hand.

“What’s that?”

“A paper crane. I’ve been getting two of these every day from someone.”

“From who?” Himchan presses.

“If only I knew,” Daehyun mutters.

“That’s kind of romantic, you know?” Himchan says. “Like, maybe someone’s trying to get your attention because they like you.”

“It’s nothing like that,” Daehyun denies. He doesn’t say that he maybe wishes it was.

Himchan isn’t reassured, and the way he eyes Daehyun as he ducks his head and scribbles hastily into his notebook is unsettling in its intensity. Daehyun can only relax when Himchan finally relents, turning to his own tasks. They spend the night silently completing their assignments, smiling sympathetically at each other when either one of them releases the occasional low whine of frustration. Himchan finishes first, quietly divulging a little information about Jongup as he packs away his supplies.

“We’re supposed to pair up with someone from another arts major for our next project. I figured I wanted to do something different this year, instead of choosing an instrument major for a duet, I thought I could do something with dance and the janggu. I saw him entirely by accident on a tour of the practice rooms, but,” Himchan zips his backpack, “he was amazing, Daehyun. You should have seen the way he moved—it was like water. He’s really talented,” Himchan says wistfully.

“You should ask him to work with you,” Daehyun suggests. He figures he’s done enough for the night, and puts his things aside.

Himchan shakes his head. “I couldn’t do it.”

“Why not?”

“I just—can’t. I’ll find someone else to work with.”

Daehyun wants to push for more, but Himchan is already sliding out of his seat, thanking Daehyun for a pleasant night.

“Tomorrow night as well?” Himchan asks.

Daehyun nods and bids Himchan good night.

_#272: Enjoy the cheesecake and make sure to stay warm._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://jezzberry.tumblr.com/)   
> 


	7. Lilac

“Yongguk,” Daehyun croaks from the bed. He’s swathed in too many blankets to count, resembling a caterpillar more than a human.

Yongguk blinks at him from inside his half-on sweater. “What’s wrong, Daehyun?” His voice is muffled by fabric. He pulls his head through finally.

“I can’t make it to class today.” Daehyun sneezes emphatically, and feels as if the whole world suddenly erupted into too-bright colors. His eyes sting. “Can you please get my assignment from my professor?” The professor had warned them all that they should make their best effort to attend today, because he would be giving information about their term project. But Daehyun feels like he’s been pulled five feet underground, with only his head above the earth and his nose level with grass—and he’s allergic to pollen. The cold of the season has finally caught up to him.

“You sound terrible,” Yongguk points out, then seems to realize that maybe it’s not the best thing to say, and apologizes. Daehyun is just glad that he still has a voice. A day of rest will fix this sickness, but if he had lost his voice, he wouldn’t be able to participate neither in class nor at his job for nearly a week.

“Can you?” Daehyun repeats.

“Yeah, of course. Give me the room number and when the class ends and I’ll get it for you. Do you need anything else?”

Daehyun feels the headache pounding between his ears, feels the roughness in his throat and the dryness of his tongue. He notices the clogging in his sinuses and the lack of tissues by his bedside. The water is somewhere near the door, where he can’t even see it. He doesn’t know where he put his medicine. Daehyun says, “No.”

Yongguk eyes him, doesn’t even bother hiding the disbelief in his expression, but Daehyun is already muttering out the location of his classroom. Yongguk repeats it to himself twice, then the time, and nods. Daehyun sighs in relief and closes his eyes. He feels heat engulfing his entire body. Even his eyelids seem too hot. He falls asleep before Yongguk even makes it out of the room.

When he wakes a second time, there is a clear glass of water on the bedside table, two white tablets of aspirin, a box of tissues, and a soft purple crane. Daehyun reaches first for the bird.

 

_#280: Take this and feel better._

 

Daehyun swallows down the pills, blows his nose, and lays back onto his pillow. He feels immensely better than before, which he can probably attribute more to the crane than the medicine. There’s a small twinge of disappointment in his gut—his friend had been in this room, had been right next to Daehyun, had taken care of him, and Daehyun hadn’t been awake to see him, or thank him.

Daehyun takes a moment to call in sick to the conservatory, and is out like a light within a few minutes.

The third time he wakes up, Yongguk has already returned, and presents Daehyun with a printed sheet of paper with instructions for the term project. Daehyun has to choose a partner with an instrument major and work on a duet song that they will both perform for a grade at the end of the year.

“Your professor also gave me this. Said that in case you don’t have anyone in mind to work with, Professor Dong, the piano teacher, has a student she wants to participate in a duet. His name and the schedule for her high level piano courses is on here.” Yongguk hands him an index card with a few lines of neat handwriting in black pen—likely Professor Dong’s script, then, because Daehyun’s professor’s calligraphy is on the wrong side of chicken scratch.

“Thank you—” Daehyun hesitates, swallowing around the word in his mouth, weighing heavy on his tongue. “Hyung. Thank you, hyung.” Yongguk grins at him, and Daehyun feels a cool, thin hand on his head, ruffling his hair.

“No problem, Daehyun.”

.

Daehyun thumbs his bangs out of his face and adjusts the thick glasses he has slipped over his eyes. A day of solid rest has done him a lot of good, but the shadows under his eyes regardless are dark enough that the cover-up he’s smeared on isn’t quite enough to hide the bags. _Yoo Youngjae_ , printed clearly on a rectangle of white, circles in his hazy thoughts. That name is what has brought him here, to the entrance of Professor Dong’s class. He can’t see the teacher inside the lecture hall, though the seats are mostly full and the lesson should begin in just a few moments.

“Can I help you?”

Daehyun jumps and turns to find himself face to shoulder with a tall, lanky woman. Her hair is short and peppered with gray hairs, and the twinkle in her eyes is friendly. Daehyun takes a wild guess and assumes that this is Professor Dong. He offers a lopsided smile, tilting his chin up to meet her gaze.

“Uh, yeah. Professor Lee recommended that I ask one of your students, Yoo Youngjae, to pair up with me for our term project. I, um. I sing,” Daehyun says, perhaps a little unnecessarily.

Professor Dong chuckles. “I’ll call him out here to speak with you. Can I get your name?”

“Jung Daehyun.”

“Give me just a moment, Daehyun.” The teacher disappears inside the classroom and returns in a few minutes with a young male by her side. “I’ll give you boys ten minutes. Don’t think you have a free pass to skip my class, Youngjae,” she chides jokingly, and closes the door behind her.

Daehyun doesn’t mean to stare, but he can’t help himself. Youngjae is everything that Daehyun is not. They are about equal in height, but Youngjae’s shoulders are broad, his torso thick and his hips narrow. His skin is pale and clear, and Daehyun would bet money on its smoothness. Youngjae is dressed finely in a gray cable-knit sweater pulled over a white collared shirt, with fitted blue jeans hanging on his hips and tucked in thick-soled, laced boots. Daehyun shifts uncomfortably in his green turtleneck. Youngjae’s hair is a dark reddish-brown and ruffled like that of the models advertising Armani underwear on billboards. Daehyun meets Youngjae’s eyes last, just barely catching a slight flicker of panicked surprise. The emotion is gone quicker than Daehyun can discern it, and replaced with a strong gaze.

“Jung Daehyun,” Daehyun blurts for the second time in the last three minutes. He bows and stretches his hand out at the same time and can’t help the pink rising to his ears. He isn’t sure if it’s from embarrassment or something else.

Youngjae shakes his hand. “Yoo Youngjae. Professor Dong said you were interested in working on a project with me?” he poses it as a question, though he already knows the answer.

“Yeah. My teacher—um. Professor Lee suggested that I pair up with you for the term project that we have. We’re supposed to do a duet with an instrument major. You play the piano, right?” Youngjae nods. “Would you do the project? With me? I mean, if you haven’t started your own assignment yet. If that—that’s cool?” Daehyun stammers. He ducks into his turtleneck, shoulders tense.

Youngjae hesitates, and Daehyun feels his heart sinking into his stomach. Strangely, he can’t bear the thought of not working together with Youngjae now that he has met him.

“I—sure. I don’t mind.”

Daehyun bites the inside of his lip, remembers that he’s not supposed to smile too widely. “Cool. Awesome. Thanks. We should exchange contact info, I guess. Do you have a pen?”

Youngjae pulls out his cell phone in lieu of an answer.

“Right. Or we can use that,” Daehyun says intelligently as they exchange phones and numbers. “Do you want to meet up on Saturday? We can discuss our styles of music and do some planning and—stuff.”

“Sure. I’ll drop by in the afternoon?” Youngjae suggests.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” Daehyun nods eagerly and bites back a groan as he wobbles on his feet. Although the congestion in his sinuses is better than the day before, rapid movements make the world bounce on its axis and his brain bounce inside his skull.

“I’ll see you later, Daehyun.” Youngjae smiles softly and Daehyun feels his breath catch in his throat. “Take care of yourself. You should rest if you’re sick,” he suggests, and slips back into his classroom. Daehyun flounders like a fish out of water and squeaks a belated “bye” after the door has already clicked shut.

It is later, in the safety of his room with no prying eyes to see, that Daehyun admits, with utter mortification, that he had developed a horrible, undeniable crush in the span of seven minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Youngjae in cable-knit sweaters ruins me.
> 
> [Tumblr](http://jezzberry.tumblr.com/)   
> 


	8. Zebra Print

Daehyun’s room is colorful, Youngjae discovers. Hanging from the ceiling are strings upon strings of cranes— _Youngjae’s_ cranes. They’re everywhere; on the bookcase, over the desk, around the window, at least fifty strings above Daehyun’s bed. It’s horribly ironic, really, Youngjae thinks, that of all the people in the entire university with whom he could have been paired up for the project, he ends up with Daehyun. Daehyun, to whom he had spilled his everything in commas, periods, letters hidden underneath layers of paper. Flimsy paper, flimsy words. And yet it seems that Daehyun has kept every last one of them. Why?

“Wow,” Youngjae says as Daehyun invites him into the room. Daehyun, too, seems to be trying to join in with the rainbow in his room. “Pink?” Youngjae questions, fighting to hide the amusement from his voice.

Daehyun colors to a shade that rivals the new dye in his hair and shies away. “I just wanted to try something a little different,” he explains, picking at a lock of hair hanging over his eyes and squinting at it. “It’s hard to get used to. I’ll probably go back to brown once my roots start showing.” His voice is clearer than it had been a few days ago. Youngjae remembers the way he’d looked so small with the covers pulled up to his chin, too weak to take his own medication as sickness ravaged his body. Yongguk—bless him—had been reluctant to leave Daehyun so sick and alone and had tracked Youngjae down to get him to help. Now, Daehyun looks a thousand times better, Youngjae observes, although his cheeks still lack the rosy tint of health.  

“I like it,” Youngjae says. He’s not sure what prompts him to reveal this tidbit of information, but Daehyun perks up almost immediately, grinning with a fervor that leaves Youngjae breathless.

Daehyun clears his throat and pulls out a desk chair as an invitation to sit. “So, about the project. I’m sorry for asking out of the blue like that. If you—if you don’t actually want to work together or were already planning something, it’s fine. You don’t have to do the project if you don’t want to,” he stammers.

“Of course I want to do the project. I wouldn’t have said yes if I didn’t,” Youngjae reassures.

Daehyun looks—almost surprised, Youngjae thinks. As if he had expected that Youngjae would go back on his word and abandon Daehyun altogether.

“Oh.” Daehyun swipes his tongue over his already dry lips, at a loss. “Okay then. That’s—good. Really good. Do you have a preference for a song?”

Youngjae shakes his head. “Anything you want is fine. Do you already have something in mind?”

“I—yes,” Daehyun admits, abashed. His shoulders hunch forward a smidge, teeth sinking into the inside of his bottom lip. “It’s not a song I think many people are familiar with. It’s. Different,” he stutters. “It’s a risk.”

“Show me,” Youngjae urges.

The song Daehyun shows him is lovely—stunning, in a soft way. It’s deceptively easy. A risk, just as Daehyun had said, for their grade. Youngjae thinks he’s willing to take it.

“I like it,” Youngjae says quietly, definitively.

“Yeah?” Daehyun asks, slow, wide grin stretching across his lips.

“Yeah.”

.

Youngjae folds the corners of the paper in. First horizontally, then vertically, diagonally. A kite next, and then the edges in, unfold, turn, refold, unfold, and each crease holds a memory of his parents.

Youngjae has many wishes. He wants to graduate from college successfully, with top grades. He’d like to find a well-paying job—performing rather than teaching. He would prefer to move away from his grandmother’s house promptly. He wants more friends. Achievements and goals—all material things.

But it’s also been nine years since he had last seen his parents. Either Youngjae has been abandoned, or his parents have long since passed away. Which option hurts more? The rest of his family has given up hope, all too quickly, it seems to him. _No two grown adults simply disappear without a trace unless they don’t want to be found or_ , a pause from his aunt, his mother’s sister. She never finishes the sentence, but Youngjae can fill in the blank. _Or dead_.

So, Youngjae really only has one wish. He wants to know what has happened to his parents.

Corners to the top, fold the edges in again, turn, fold, fold, turn, fold, crease. Youngjae sets the finished crane in front of himself and thinks of a boy with pink hair and eyes that smile.

No, Youngjae has two wishes.

But a thousand paper cranes only grant one.

.

Daehyun’s mother calls.

“Will you come home this time?” she asks. Winter break is in less than a week.

“Probably not.” It’s the same reply, every time. He doesn’t even think before he says it. An automatic conversation, held between sentences in his textbook and breaks in his mother’s television shows. Except this time, even as he repeats the same script, he can’t stop the bubbling of longing. He keeps his sentences short, hopes that his mother can’t hear how much he wants to come home.

“Tell me if you are, okay? I’d need to get the apartment cleaned up a little.”

“It’s alright. It doesn’t have to be clean. I’m not a stranger.”

“But, if I’m to see my boy for the first time in half a year, I’d want him to see that I’m doing just fine and that the apartment is fine, too,” Daehyun’s mother argues.

“Don’t worry about it, mom. If I come home, I come home, and the way the apartment looks won’t matter. But, you _are_ doing fine, right?”

“Just fine, just fine. You work hard yourself,” his mother trills.

“I will.”

They don’t talk much. Their conversations are stinted and rushed. Ask the questions ( _how are you how are your friends how are your classes_ and _how are you feeling how is work how are the finances_ ) and accept the answers ( _Everything’s okay_ and _everything’s fine_.) Never mind that the questions never ask _what_ or _why_ or _who_. Never mind that the answers are always lies. They’ve grown apart and Daehyun isn’t sure how to fix it.

“You look just like him,” his mother says once, when Daehyun is still in high school. They’re eating dinner at a table too big for two, with the news on the TV in the living room turned up to fill the silence his father has left behind. “You look just like your father did.”

Daehyun stabs a piece of broccoli with his fork and doesn’t say anything in response. He wonders if it’s a good thing, his likeness to his father. Later, when he looks in the mirror, instead of his own reflection he sees a taller figure, sparse beard, kind eyes: a patchwork of Daehyun’s memories of his father.

Daehyun leaves for Seoul a year later and thinks it better for both him and his mother. She doesn’t have to be reminded of her deceased husband so often if she doesn’t see Daehyun. Daehyun, in turn, doesn’t have to think about family at all. He leaves behind the photo album he has of pictures of his father.

Daehyun doesn’t come home for the breaks. He only visits for a week or two during the summer, and then goes back to campus for his summer classes. But this time, the homesickness hits him like the sudden weight of a ton of bricks and Daehyun doesn’t even manage to end the call with his mother before he lets out a sob. He misses the crispness of the air on the beach, the salt-laced winds and the sunsets and the quiet clusters of woods. Daehyun scrambles for the off button, but for once his mother asks him a question he hasn’t heard in years. _What’s wrong?_

Daehyun looks on the other side of the room, where he sees Yongguk’s clothing drawers pulled out and an open suitcase half under the bed.

His mother says, “Come home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> list of things that ruin me:  
> 1\. youngjae in cable knit sweaters  
> 2\. daehyun in turtleneck sweaters  
> 3\. daehyun in sweatshirts  
> 4\. daehyun with pink hair  
> I might have a thing for sweaters in general??
> 
> [Tumblr](http://jezzberry.tumblr.com/)


	9. Cerise Blooms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gosh it's been a while. exams began this monday for me and will last on and off unfortunately until the middle of june :/ so updates from now on are on an if-I-have-time schedule.

“I’m here, mom,” Daehyun says. His cell phone is pressed between his ear and his shoulder, so that one hand can search for the key his mother had apparently hidden in the potted plant that morning. The other hand holds onto his suitcase and the duffle bag he’d dropped onto it.

“Did you find the key yet? I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to pick you up or welcome you home. Half the staff here is out with the stomach flu and they needed an extra hand.”

“Are they at least paying you overtime?” Daehyun finally finds the key taped to the inner rim of the pot and unlocks the front door.

“Of course, honey.” Daehyun’s mother sounds out of breath. She probably doesn’t have the time for a phone call right now.

“Okay, I’m in. I don’t want to bother you. Just wanted to tell you I was here so you wouldn’t worry.”

“That’s my Daehyun, the worry wart. I’m just fine, just fine.” Daehyun’s mother has picked up a habit of repeating herself, on occasion. Particularly, Daehyun has noticed, when it involves her well-being. It’s like she’s trying to convince herself of the truth in her words, too. “I’ll be home later tonight with some takeout. It’ll be just like our Wednesday nights before.”

“Yeah. Okay. Sounds good. I’ll see you then.” Daehyun hangs up before his mother has time to say anything else.

The living room Daehyun stands in is familiar, but so different from his memories. His mother had downsized to a one bedroom apartment after Daehyun had moved into the college dormitory. The basic layout of the apartment is the same, but the color of the walls is a few shades off, the lights are decorated differently, and everything seems more cramped than it should be. The sofa is the same as it has been for the past ten years of Daehyun’s life, pressed to the wall with a small wooden coffee table a few feet in front. The TV rests on a sagging bookshelf of cookbooks, romance novels, and old CDs. The walls are bare, save for an antique cuckoo clock above the TV. Daehyun remembers that as a child, the cuckoo clock had been far more interesting to him than the low quality cartoons playing on the box-like television.

Daehyun wanders into the kitchen further in, hidden behind the wall across from the sofa. It’s a neat little kitchen, with clean countertops in black that should be the gray of his old apartment. The space is tiny, but somehow fits the dishwasher, a double sink, a breakfast table, a wall-to-wall window that has a full view of the street below, an oven, and the refrigerator. The clock here is made of cheap plastic and ticks noisily.

To the right of the kitchen is a rectangular space that Daehyun noticed from the living room, meant as a dining area. Their round table leans against the wall in pieces. No one has needed it, so no one has assembled it back together after the move. Stacks of unopened cardboard boxes line the rest of the wall. Daehyun guesses that they contain the remainder of his belongings and disassembled furniture.

There is a short hallway that Daehyun’s mother has covered with an old rug, and on one side is a narrow bathroom, on the other is the master bedroom. The hallway is dark without natural light, but Daehyun can still make out the minuscule tears in the plaster of the wall, as well as the black marker and scratched surface toward the bottom.

It isn’t the nicest apartment. It’s old and small, but it’s in the same apartment building, which had meant that the hired movers were cheaper and the heavy boxes could be transferred to their new home quicker. Daehyun hadn’t been there to help with the move. He had been adjusting to college life and the homework load, trying to make new friends in a city where he didn’t belong.

Daehyun’s mother finds him reading on the sofa in the living room quietly when she comes in. He stands, reaching for the bags of food in her hands. She doesn’t allow him to take them from her.

“No, no. I can do it myself. It’s okay, it’s okay.” Daehyun trails after her anyway as she places the bags on the breakfast table. His bare toes curl on the cool tile floor, and he regrets that he hadn’t heeded his mother’s old advice of always wearing socks. “You found one of your old books, did you?” His mother sets about busily unpacking the food. “They wouldn’t all fit in one box, so the rest are buried there somewhere. Are you hungry?”

“Sure. If you are.”

“I’m hungry, I’m hungry. Don’t you worry about that. Can you grab the plates up there?” she points up at the middle shelf in a cupboard that she had opened. She’s a good head shorter than Daehyun, and keeps a stool in the corner of the kitchenette for things she can’t reach.

“But these are the special plates,” Daehyun remarks, grabbing two of them.

“It’s a special occasion. My son is home, finally home.” His mother grins, holding on to his elbow gently.

They work together to plate the food, heat it up, and clear the breakfast table as much as possible. For a dinner for two, it’s just the right size. His mother wipes off her makeup before coming to eat at the table, and Daehyun takes a moment to observe the wrinkles on her forehead, around her mouth and her eyes. Her hair is dyed, but the grayed roots are showing. She looks pale in the fluorescent lighting in the kitchen.

She looks older. Old.

“I kept all of your books. Goodness, there were so many of them. All from used bookstore by the high school, aren’t they? You used to spend every last dollar you had on those books.”

Daehyun hums in acknowledgement. “The old man who owned the store would give me discounts whenever he could.” He’s never even had a proper bookshelf for any of them. They had been stacked along every wall in his room, under his bed, all over his desk and inside his closet. Paperbacks, all of them, worn and falling apart sometimes, but beautiful on the inside. Daehyun has a love for words, but he can’t say that he knows how to use them well.

“He’s retired now, I believe. I saw a young pair managing the store last time I walked past. I think they’re his grandchildren. Maybe you should go over and have a visit? The girl was very pretty.”

Daehyun lifts his gaze to meet his mother’s, chewing slowly.

He had brought home a boy once before, in middle school. His first boyfriend. It had been a Wednesday night, a rare day off for his mother, and she’d been waiting for him with boxes of takeout. She hadn’t been expecting a guest. Daehyun had introduced his guest, leaving the word _boy_ out of _friend_. The dinner table wasn’t as empty that night, but the conversation was absent, stilted. After dinner, Daehyun had walked his boyfriend to his own home, and they held hands on the street. His mother hadn’t said a word to him for days later. In hindsight, Daehyun realizes that the rift between them had grown bigger following that night.

The silence between Daehyun and his mother stretches. She wipes her lips on a napkin. “The boy there was also very handsome. A good boy. I met him once in the grocery store and he helped me carry some of my heavier bags back to the apartment,” Daehyun’s mother says quietly. The corner of her lips lift just slightly. Daehyun feels a little ball roll up in his throat, and he hastily shovels food into his mouth.

“Good. It’s good. The food,” he mumbles.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full. So many years, and you’re still the same boy you were before,” his mother scolds softly. “ _My_ boy. My sweet, talented, beautiful boy.”

“I’m already twenty, mom.”

“I know, I know. It’s been so long, hasn’t it? I’ve missed you so much. My hardworking son, always worrying about his mother. I’m fine, just fine. No need to worry about me so much, honey.”

Daehyun takes a breath. “Mom, I have another break in the spring. I’ll come home again then, okay?”

“Of course. Of course that’s okay. My boy,” his mother replies. “I’m so proud of you, you know?”

“I know.” Daehyun nods vigorously and chokes down the lump in his throat with a sip of water. “I know,” he repeats. His voice wobbles just a bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://jezzberry.tumblr.com/)   
> 


	10. Coral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT: If you read this story before 1/26/16, I highly recommend rereading. I've re-re-re-edited the story with some pretty big changes, including adding more character development, removing a character, introducing a new character, and more. //bricked

_#338: No one really expected me to go to college and study piano. I started playing when I was twelve, so many years later than the kids who began at five. I read advanced textbooks for fun and could sleep through my classes and still succeed. They all thought I’d be a mathematician or a scientist of some sort. They said I wouldn’t stand a chance as pianist._

_Have you ever heard of the International Chopin Piano Competition? It’s held in Warsaw, Poland, every five years. It’s a pretty big deal if you win._

_I participated in it the last time it was held. I was only eighteen. I didn’t get to the final stage, and that was all that anyone cared about. It didn’t matter that I got past the first, second, and third stages with only five years of piano._

_In the end, it was my grandmother who told me to do what I wanted. She showed me the numbers in her bank account and said it was all mine. Whatever I wanted to do with it. Money can’t buy happiness, they say, but it can sure get real close._

.

It’s their first practice together. Daehyun is all over the place—leaning over a music stand, sprawled over the side of the piano, on the piano bench with his toes pressing curiously into the pedals. Youngjae sits down next to him and uncovers the keys. Daehyun can’t help but notice his hands. Youngjae’s fingers are slim and strong, and his nails are manicured neatly, trimmed nearly to the quick. When Youngjae isn’t looking, Daehyun compares his small hands to Youngjae’s octave-spanning palms and feels ever the tinier.

Their thighs brush—just the slightest bit of contact—and Daehyun springs up to stand rigidly at Youngjae’s side instead. He swallows thickly and wets his dry lips, willing for the electricity in his fingertips to settle down. Daehyun regards the way Youngjae looks so at home at the piano. Shoulders relaxed, wrists steady, elbows apart. Youngjae has pulled up the sleeves of his sweater to reveal pale, smooth skin and muscle. Daehyun clears his throat, feeling like he’s suffocating in such a tiny space. The gentle scent of Youngjae’s cologne is all too much.

“Do you need to warm up your voice?” Youngjae asks.

Daehyun brushes his hair out of his eyes, tries to sound normal. “Uh, yeah. Just play a song you know and I’ll sing along.” The atmosphere around them is stiff for a reason Daehyun doesn’t know. He’s not sure how to fix it, but the air is uncomfortable. He can’t relax.

Daehyun realizes two things when Youngjae starts to play.

The first, is that he knows the song. Knows it, and loves it. It’s not an easy song to sing, but he’s practiced it before on his own time enough that the lyrics and the melody come to him like second nature. He picks up on his cue and sings it the only way he can, with his eyes closed and his entire heart beating to the tune, body thrumming. Youngjae has the piece down well enough that even with Daehyun’s voice wrapping around him, harmonizing with his notes, he doesn’t falter. He’s never done a duet before. Youngjae had been afraid that it wouldn’t work out, that he couldn’t keep up or that he’d get distracted by a second musical presence. Instead, it seems like all the strings connecting the millions of pieces of the world have suddenly tightened, and everything comes into place, sharper than ever before. Youngjae can see the dust motes fluttering softly about the room, can see how everything is still as it listens to Youngjae’s music and Daehyun’s song. Youngjae allows himself a glance at Daehyun out of the corner of his eyes, struck by how everything about him seems so _perfect_. Daehyun’s soft pink hair is electrified, single strands standing up from the top of his head like threads from a fuzzy sweater. His eyelashes are caught in the light of the sun from the single window in the center of the back wall, curved and golden. Although his lips are dry, Youngjae can just barely fight down the overwhelming urge to kiss them until they’re red. Until Daehyun is gasping for breath for a reason other than having just sung through a strenuous, four minute song pitched higher than most males can reach.

They stare at each other as Youngjae plays through the last notes of the song, the both of them equally short of breath. Daehyun looks energized, elated, his grin like a fire; warm and crackling, cheery sparks jumping and shining like stars in a dark sky. Youngjae can feel that warmth thawing him from the fingertips in, creeping along his hands and onto his arms. It leaves tingling embers in its wake, as if butterflies with wings made of yellow flames have landed all over his body and kissed his skin, then lifted off as quickly as they had appeared. Youngjae is mesmerized.

“You’re—beautiful,” Youngjae breathes, and means it, with every fiber of his being. “Your singing is beautiful.” He hopes fervently that Daehyun understands that Youngjae is elaborating on his first statement rather than amending it.

Daehyun blushes from head to toe, expressive eyes betraying how pleased he is with the compliment. He licks his lips and rubs across them with the sleeve of his sweater as if he’s drying them, but Youngjae sees the happy bunching of his cheeks even if the smile below is hidden. Youngjae feels—well, he’s not really sure. He’s happier than he ever remembers being before, feels like the stuffy practice room they’re in is a breath of fresh air with every inhale, feels like the blood pumping in his veins is boiling and _alive_.

“Thank you,” Daehyun says, voice so quiet that it borders on a whisper.

There is no longer any stiffness in the atmosphere between them. Youngjae takes out his music sheets and plays through the piece that they had chosen. His fingers aren’t quite accustomed to the notes, but neither is Daehyun’s voice accustomed to the melody. They work through each measure slowly but steadily, neither minding the other’s mistakes. They close their eyes, imagining the wind blowing across the sea, a boat rocking to the waves, the Caribbean Sea. Their song is still rigid and terribly imperfect, sounds nothing like the original. They’ll get it eventually.

“No rush,” Daehyun says.

“Not yet,” Youngjae jokes, absentmindedly playing a snippet from a classical piece Daehyun can’t name as Daehyun packs his things away.

The second thing Daehyun realizes that day is that he knows the way Youngjae plays. He’s sure of it, from the several times he’d heard it in his music theory class. From the day in the courtyard. He _knows_ it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some of you may have noticed that himup-focused chapters were removed. they will later be compiled into a himup-only spin-off one shot that will tell their story a lot better than if I tried to squeeze it in here.  
> please accept my deepest apologies for such a long wait. i went into a pretty bad self-hatred writing slump. thank you for sticking with me ;;;;  
> [Tumblr](http://jezzberry.tumblr.com/)  
> 


	11. Wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song they perform is Caribbean Blue by Enya, which you all really should listen to because it is amazing. the lyrics pop up throughout this chapter in right-aligned italics

_Eurus…_

_Afer Ventus…_

They meet up two, three, sometimes four times a week in the practice rooms. They play until their fingertips are red and sing until their throats are sore. The hours fly by faster than Daehyun can blink. The performance is the last project of the semester, and will be graded as their final. Daehyun watches the moon as it wanes and disappears, leaving behind bare and cold nights. When there are only two weeks remaining, Daehyun spends more time studying at his job than actually working, and is infinitely thankful that the teachers at the conservatory understand. He starts wearing his glasses more often than not, spends every last penny on caffeine. He doesn’t have time to go to Himchan’s café anymore. Youngjae fares no better. Late evenings turn into late nights of practice and sometimes Daehyun only leaves the campus at two in the morning. It’s a miracle they can even get into the practice rooms at that hour.

Daehyun and Youngjae are sort of friends, now. Daehyun doesn’t bring up what he thinks he knows. He leaves a flicker of doubt, although it’s small. They message each other occasionally, and even hold full conversations when they drift from the topic of their project. Daehyun shares a breakfast muffin with Youngjae one day, and Youngjae brings two steaming cups of coffee with him one night. When Daehyun comes into the practice room two days in a row with a runny nose, Youngjae brings boxes of vitamin supplements to Daehyun’s dorm room. Yongguk only barely manages to stuff his smile inside his palm when Daehyun introduces him to Youngjae.

Exhaustion drags every student down to rock bottom. One final comes and goes. Youngjae’s fingers tangle together and slip off the keyboard, and Daehyun’s voice cracks as if he’s still in his adolescence. They make it past their second final, and then the third. Daehyun and Youngjae share tired smiles, half-closed eyelids, lean their weight against each other. At some point, Daehyun stops standing by the piano, and sits next to Youngjae on the bench instead.

Daehyun and Youngjae are sort of friends, now, but Daehyun has fallen, and fallen hard.

_So the world goes round and round_

_With all you ever knew_

_They say the sky high above_

_Is Caribbean blue..._

The moon begins to wax. Daehyun crashes and sleeps through a whole day and only has his performance final to worry about. There is a rehearsal the next day. Under the harsh lights of the auditorium, Youngjae’s skin looks sickly pale, but he’s gained more color than he had had over the last week. Daehyun still worries when he sees a smudge of concealer just below Youngjae’s eyes. The performance is more of a yearly festival, in which most classes have a part. Dance, instruments, singing, acting, even baking, cooking, and all variants of art participate. It’s a two day event that lasts for more than half the day. Entry for outside visitors comes with a five dollar fee. Long tables laden with food from students bakers and chefs line the walls outside of the performance hall, creating a wide, enclosed area with circular tables on the inside offering student created comics, books, paintings, ceramics, and more.

Youngjae finds Daehyun amidst the spaghetti and calamari at the Italian-themed food table around the twelfth performance on the first day. They themselves are number thirty-five, toward the end, and had planned to meet up backstage before the twenty-seventh.

Youngjae slips a roll of sushi onto Daehyun’s plate and says, “Are you ready?”

Daehyun swallows around a mouthful of breaded squid and resists rocking back and forth on his feet. “Yep,” he declares, popping the _p_.

They had gone for casual. Daehyun wears a pair of dark blue skinny jeans and a cream-colored sweater, thickly knitted into subtle patterns. Youngjae’s pants are a lighter blue, but his sweater is black. Daehyun is just glad that Youngjae hadn’t insisted that they should wear suits.

“Our song is too comfortable for sharp-looking suits,” Youngjae had said. Daehyun had sighed in relief and missed the fond gleam in Youngjae’s eyes.

_If every man says all he can,_

_If every man is true,_

_Do I believe the sky above_

_Is Caribbean blue..._

Twenty-six finds the both of them backstage, bowing to their professors. As they wait and crane their heads to look out onto the stage, Youngjae takes out a two packets of hand warmers. He shakes them roughly and squeezes them between his fingers like a stress ball. Daehyun chews on his bottom lip and gives up pretending as if he isn’t nervous.

“Youngjae,” Daehyun starts, but forgets what he had wanted to say.

“My fingers are icicles,” Youngjae declares poetically. He’s grinning, some kind of lopsided thing that betrays his own anxiety and Daehyun feels calmer with the knowledge that Youngjae is here with him. Youngjae cups his hands and breathes into them for emphasis and Daehyun giggles a little, probably sounding more maniacal than amused. His jitters are unpleasant, but somehow Daehyun is sure he’ll never give it up for anything else.

At thirty, Daehyun leaves to warm up his voice outside. _Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three_ and Youngjae comes to get him. At thirty-four, the backstage helpers are shoving a microphone into Daehyun’s hands and three men are getting ready to wheel out a grand piano. Youngjae throws away his hand warmers and turns to Daehyun. On stage, the lights go off, and the thirty-fourth performers rush backstage. Some backstage helper is whispering frantically for Daehyun and Youngjae to _go, go, go,_ but Daehyun stalls. He leans in and brushes his lips across the smooth skin of Youngjae’s cheek, lighter than the touch of a breeze. Someone shoves Daehyun in the back. It’s probably the backstage helper.

One step and they’re on the stage, bright lights flushing the color from their skin. Youngjae walks to the piano and Daehyun finds that his feet walk in step with him automatically. Daehyun stands by his side as Youngjae rests his hand on the sleek black curve of the piano’s keyboard. They bow in unison, counting _one two three_ before rising. There is comfort in this routine, practiced to the point that it’s muscle memory.

Now, Daehyun should be heading to center stage but—

_Boreas..._

_Zephryus..._

Youngjae sits at the piano, but Daehyun is still there, standing in front of it. He hesitates a second more and then holds onto the slim edge of the piano. He hops up and counts his blessings that his heels didn’t accidentally slam into the piano. Youngjae hides his surprise well when they lock eyes with each other, the silent signal to start.

With an inhale, Youngjae begins. Soothing and familiar, the melody washes over Daehyun’s frayed nerves like a balm. He watches Youngjae’s fingers, the way they smooth across the notes with confidence and draw the music out of the piano. Youngjae’s head is bowed to the keyboard and his body moves with his hands, relaxed. The solo measures pass by and Daehyun joins in, harmonizing softly and rising in _crescendo_ before falling rapidly to _piano_. Over and over, like waves lapping on the shores of a beach. Daehyun thinks of the ocean he has left behind.

They lose themselves in their music. Daehyun thinks that if the whole world came crashing down around them, they still would continue their song. It’s another thing they share, this passion of theirs. This ability to invest themselves wholly in the one thing they love most in the world. This is the magic they create, the only magic that is known to them. The greatest kind of magic. It’s this magic that has brought them together, Daehyun knows.

“If all you told was turned to gold,

If all you dreamed was new,

Imagine sky high above

In Caribbean blue...”

Youngjae can’t help but look at Daehyun as he sings through the last part. Eyes closed, both hands clutching at the microphone, and swaying ever so slowly from side to side, Daehyun looks just as he did the first time he had sung for Youngjae. He looks, Youngjae decides, like warmth, like the sun, like everything that makes Youngjae happy. And this time, Youngjae is sure that he knows the feeling that bubbles in his chest. Admiration, appreciation, care, joy, fondness, liveliness, energy—more—all of which can be summed up in a four-letter word that Youngjae hasn’t dared to even think for years. Youngjae plays the last note of his part and suddenly, Daehyun opens his eyes. He turns his head to the side and their eyes meet in a way that Youngjae is sure is intentional. Daehyun is singing through the last measure, holding his gaze steady and Youngjae trapped in it.

There’s a short pause as the final note reverberates in the air, silence sitting heavily in the auditorium before it ruptures with thundering applause. It’s as deafening as it is thrilling and Youngjae doesn’t even try to hide the pride from his expression as he stands from the bench. Daehyun jumps off from his precarious position on the piano, stumbling slightly. Youngjae catches him by the arm and is met with the brightest grin he’s ever seen. He’s so thoroughly dazed that Daehyun has to nearly lead him to bow at the center of the stage. At some point, one of them had linked their pinkies together, and neither of them tries to shake it off now. They bow and leave the stage as calmly as they can manage, handing off the microphone as they pass backstage. They have all of a minute to stare at each other as if it’s the first time they’re seeing one another: wordless, hearts hammering in tandem, adrenaline still racing through their veins.

And then Daehyun is being pulled aside for congratulations by Professor Lee, and Professor Dong latches onto Youngjae.

They part just before the last performance of the day, Daehyun back to the food tables and Youngjae to his dorm. Youngjae folds a crane as soon as he gets back and slides it under Daehyun’s door. In his back pocket his phone weighs heavily, and Youngjae wonders if maybe he should talk about today with Daehyun, if maybe today meant something.

_#372: That was a brilliant performance. It was a good song._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I chose Caribbean Blue as the song bc it's a color (and there's a lot of color in this story) and bc the feeling it gives off is the feeling I want this story to have. Thanks to Lynn for helping me make the choice bc it was a hard one haha.
> 
> [Tumblr](http://jezzberry.tumblr.com/)   
> 


	12. Amaranth

A week later, Youngjae takes Daehyun out for coffee. They sit across from each other, tucked in a booth in the corner by the window. It’s noon, but the sky is grayer than dusk and all they can see is dark umbrellas passing by in the gloomy street outside. Daehyun is smiling shyly into his hot chocolate, and Youngjae feels a kind of gravitational pull coming from him that he just can’t resist. The folded, dripping umbrella by Daehyun’s feet is fire-truck red. Youngjae thinks he wouldn’t mind spending all the moments of his life like this.

They find that they don’t really know how to talk to each other about things other than music. They stumble through conversation, skimming just the surface, and look more at each other’s reflections in the window than directly at each other. Really, there are so many things to talk about, so many things Youngjae wants to learn about Daehyun, but he doesn’t know where to start, or if he should. It’s quiet in the shop, as if the rain has stolen away the sound from the rest of the world. Daehyun’s voice is low, chin tucked to his chest, like he’s afraid of disturbing the peace. It’s nice, Youngjae thinks, whatever this is, this warmth blossoming between them like young flowers tentatively unfurling at the first calling of spring. Daehyun, to Youngjae, is spring itself, bright and rosy and so, so gentle.

Sometime between Youngjae’s second blueberry muffin and Daehyun’s first cheesecake, their ankles interlock underneath the table, but Youngjae isn’t even sure who made the first move. He splits his third muffin and shares it with Daehyun, remembering the other time they’d divided one between them, the way they’d sat next to each other on the creaking piano bench, thighs pressed together, exhaustion pulling their eyelids over their eyes. Daehyun looks at him, and Youngjae can’t help but catch Daehyun’s infectious smile, cheeks bunched and full of spongy muffin. He thinks—hopes—they might be remembering the same thing.

There’s a lull in their conversation. They gaze at each other, searching for something neither of them knows how to find. Daehyun sighs in content, chest and shoulders rising and falling, and the tiny breath whispers across the space in between them like dry leaves skittering over the sidewalk in autumn. Youngjae leans closer, sets his elbows on the table and his chin in the palm of his hand and doesn’t pretend that he’s not staring at Daehyun, because Daehyun is so beautiful that there’s just nothing Youngjae can do to stop himself. Youngjae remembers that they’ve got only a few more months left, and yet he still has six hundred and fifteen cranes to fold. He thinks about the joyful amber in Daehyun’s eyes, the way they welcome Youngjae in as if they’ve been waiting for him for far too many years. He thinks about how the stars aligned just right for Youngjae, in a tipsy haze, to pick Daehyun as the one to whom he will send his cranes, and then for Daehyun to seek him out for a term project when all he had was a name and a recommendation from his professor. Youngjae thinks about how he has never wanted someone else so much in his life. And then—

And then Youngjae reaches into the bag by his side and pulls out a dwindling stack of what had once been one thousand three-by-three sheets of origami paper, and sets it on the table. He unclips a pen from the pocket of his canvas bag and slips a solid colored square of out of the stack. It’s a pinkish red, deeper than coral with a purple tinge, and Youngjae thinks there’s no better color for this moment than this one. He uncaps the pen and scribbles out the first thing he can think of. He only realizes the trembling in his fingers when he reads over what he has written and finds that the letters are all slightly off, slightly tilted, not quite his own handwriting. But he has to finish what he'd begun, so Youngjae starts folding the corners in. First horizontally, then vertically and diagonally. A kite next, then the edges folded in, unfold, turn, refold, unfold. He licks his lips and doesn’t dare to look up at Daehyun. Corners to the top, fold the edges in again, turn, fold, fold, turn, fold, crease. Youngjae has folded three hundred and eighty-six cranes for a boy, and he’ll fold six hundred and fourteen more. He sets the finished crane on the table between them, and pushes it across toward Daehyun. Amaranth stains the polished wood of the table in the reflection.

“You sent them,” Daehyun whispers. In the buzz of the café, the hissing of the rain pouring outside, Youngjae barely catches the words. What he hears, though, isn’t surprise. He chances a glance at Daehyun, is met with molten brown and sunshine and spring.

And Daehyun—Daehyun looks at him as if he’s the most amazing person in the world. As if Youngjae himself had hung up the stars and the moon and planted the flowers in the soil. He takes the crane delicately, pinching the wing between his forefinger and thumb to bring it closer, but doesn’t unfold it. Youngjae imagines Daehyun gently picking up each of the last three hundred and eighty-five cranes day by day, wonders what Daehyun had thought the first time he had found one in his room.

“Thank you,” Daehyun says, and before Youngjae can ask what Daehyun is thanking him for, Daehyun is standing up and leaning over the table. His fingertips flit lightly over the skin between Youngjae’s cheek and jawbone, and his lips, soft and warm and insistent, press against Youngjae’s.

Everything, Youngjae thinks, is just right, just like this.

.

“You’re not surprised,” Youngjae says later, quietly. They’re outside, huddled underneath the awning of the same coffee shop they’ve just left. The rain has not let up even slightly, and pressed against the cool brick wall, hands clutched together, breathing the same damp air, it’s as if they’re the only ones in the world.

Daehyun says simply, “No,” and Youngjae isn’t surprised either, really.

They stay like that, unmoving, watching people rush past, feet splashing in puddles, and cars speed along the road, throwing water on the sidewalk. Daehyun’s hand, fingers intertwined with Youngjae’s, is growing steadily colder, and Youngjae’s breath begins to fan out in a fog as the wind picks up and early February rumbles around them. The forecast claimed that the rain is due to change to snow in the late evening, so Youngjae squeezes Daehyun’s hand and reaches for the umbrella hanging from his wrist by the strap.

“Let’s go.” Fiery red amidst a sea of black and gray, hips bumping, shoulders brushing. _Just right._

Their feet lead them on campus and into a practice room, into  _their_ practice room, and they sit at the piano bench, playing footsie with each other and the pedals. It’s silly, but Daehyun is grinning and Youngjae is laughing and sometimes (many times) they kiss, and it’s the most incredible thing Youngjae has ever experienced. _Daehyun_ is incredible. Youngjae makes sure to tell him so, vows to tell him every day from this day onward, how much Daehyun means to him, how much happiness he brings.

.

_#386: Hi. I like your smile._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am literally incapable of keeping up with a schedule woaw
> 
> [Tumblr](http://jezzberry.tumblr.com/)  
> 


	13. Caribbean Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you see, this story is now part of a series. The himup spinoff shall be added to this series sometime in the future, (I'd give it a few months) so do keep an eye out!

Slip and slide of paper, view of the world as it wakes up.

“There’s a small part of me that wants to just get on a train and go somewhere,” Daehyun says. His voice is soft, frayed at the edges, waiting for someone to come along and tie up the loose ends.

“Where?”

“Anywhere.”

“We can do it together.” And Youngjae braids it all together with nimble fingers and smiles like melted chocolate.

.

“Are you going home?” Youngjae asks. In his hands are seven sheets of patterned paper, three inches by three inches. Daehyun’s head is heavy on Youngjae’s shoulder, eyelids quivering like feathers in a breeze with the effort of keeping them open. Their backs are pressed against the headboard of Daehyun’s bed, thin cotton shorts and t-shirts warmed by steady pulses and soft breaths. They sit in a sea of paper cranes.

Daehyun warms the question in his mind, kneads it and stretches it and balls it back up like dough. He wants to say something cheesy, like _home is where the heart is_ or _my home is with you_ , because really, he means it. Instead, he says, “Yeah.” It feels thick on his tongue, the soapy taste of words unsaid.  

They spend the whole night awake, he and Youngjae, lights off, talking quietly. The window in his room hasn’t been closed since three days ago, and they can hear the sounds of the world outside dreaming, dreaming, dreaming. The generators switch on and off, buzzing, and something croaks in the grass, but otherwise silence blankets them thickly, warm with summer stars and a full moon. They’ve spared their sleep for this, their last night—day—together. They’ve spared their sleep for these moments, where the only thing that matters is each other.

Daehyun dozes, and Youngjae folds the last forty-eight cranes in the dark with deft fingertips and unbroken rhythm. “I want to finish them before summer,” he had said, and folded nearly six hundred in the span of two months.

It is still dark at four in the morning when Youngjae finishes and they step outside, stifling yawns and rubbing tired eyes. They call for a taxi and wait for it cross-legged in the dew-laden grass. There’s a large black bag in Youngjae’s lap with nine hundred and ninety-nine thoughts, wishes, doubts and fears. They ask the taxi driver to take them to the bridge overlooking the Han River.

“Are you sure?” Daehyun asks, when they’re peering over the edge at the water below. He thinks of the color in his room and the color in his heart and a part of him doesn’t want to throw them away forever.

“Yes,” Youngjae says. “I made the last one.” _I made my wish._

When Youngjae is ready, they tear the bag open over the water and release nine hundred and ninety-nine caged birds on their first and final flight. They flutter gently to the water, some spinning, others floating, caught in the wind, and Daehyun imagines he hears the whispers of the words that had tied him and Youngjae together.

“They flew.” Youngjae inhales humidity and pollution, exhales nine hundred and ninety-nine worries, and feels as if he will fly, too. The mellow blue of the sky gives gradually to a gradient of pink, and Daehyun watches Youngjae as Youngjae watches his cranes drown and swim away, swept by the current of the river. When Youngjae finally turns to look at him, his smile is weightless, relieved, radiant.

.

They wait for Daehyun’s train to Busan together. When it finally arrives, a few minutes off schedule, Youngjae kisses him goodbye on the platform, and Daehyun thinks maybe people are looking, or maybe they aren’t, but he doesn’t care either way.

“See you soon,” Youngjae murmurs. His voice carries with it the crisp crackling of wood on a bonfire, burnt marshmallows, and sugary kisses.

“Yeah,” Daehyun agrees, and kisses Youngjae one more time, hard, just because he can.

.

Daehyun watches his reflection in the window, watches buildings and grass blur past so quickly that he can’t tell which is which. He thinks about the summer, about coming back to visit his childhood town and reuniting with friends he hasn’t seen for years. He thinks about the train ticket Youngjae bought ahead of time for two weeks in Busan with Daehyun. It is a promise, printed and tucked in Youngjae’s wallet for safekeeping.

Daehyun closes his eyes and wonders at the long forgotten feeling of excitement tickling his throat and bubbling in his mouth, like he’s just downed a glass of champagne in one go. There’s a sky blue crane sitting in his pocket with Youngjae’s warmth caught in its folds. He’ll open it when he gets home, but he thinks he already knows what he’ll find inside.

Sweet champagne, indeed.

 

_#1000_

_I love you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can honestly say I have never struggled so much to write a chapter. I've been actively trying to write this chapter for 2 months and it's finally done, and i'm not sure what to think of it. either way, this was quite a long ride. thank you to all readers, commenters, and all who gave kudos! I hope you have enjoyed the story and that I will see you in the himup spinoff!
> 
> Send requests/find drabbles on my [Tumblr](http://jezzberry.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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